“Oh, Owein.” She reached out to him. Touched his chin, where the red stubble had begun to thicken. But his beard didn’t seem to bother her as it once had.
“How could I condemn you for your darkness?” she said. “You endured so much, and yet you never lost your honor, never struck out at the innocent as Blodwen did.” Her fingertips brushed his lips. “And besides, you’re not the only reason I wish to stay in Avalon. I want to stay for myself, too. For my magic.”
A tendril of hope unfurled in Owein’s chest. If Clara truly wished to stay in Avalon, who was he to drive her away? The gods knew he wanted her at his side. Perhaps it was time to let the last of his darkness go.
And accept happiness in its place.
He caught her hand, halting her exploration of his jawline. Turning it in his, he pressed a kiss on her open palm.
She smiled and sighed, relaxing into his body. He drew her in tightly, his arm wrapping around her. She fit so perfectly beside him.
He let out a long breath. “I thank ye.”
She looked up. “For what?”
“For pursuing me into Blodwen’s trap. I could nay have stopped her madness without ye, lass.”
“
Clara,
” she said with a mock scowl. “How many times must I tell you?”
Easing away, he took her hands in his. “Clara,” he agreed softly. “How I love ye.”
He brought her hands to his lips. Without releasing her gaze, he caught the tip of one forefinger in his mouth and suckled it.
Her breath caught. He turned his head, rubbing his new beard against her palm.
“That prickles,” she said.
“Think how it would feel on the tender skin between your thighs,” he whispered.
She went still, her breath catching. Surreptitiously, she darted a glance right and left, as if assessing the villagers milling about the yard. One or two were watching their conversation with undisguised interest, Owein noted with some amusement. He’d lived alone for so long, he’d all but forgotten that privacy was not an aspect of village life.
Clara went up on tiptoe, wrapping her arms about his neck. Her lips brushed his ear. “Is there a hut free, do you think?” she whispered. “I want to show you how eager I am to be your wife.”
He raised his brows. “Are ye offering me marriage, then, lass?”
Clara smiled, her eyes sparking with mischief. “Celt women choose their own husbands. If I’m to live here in Avalon, shouldn’t I uphold the custom?” Her gaze softened. “I ask you now, Owein of Avalon—will you join hands with me before the clan?”
Owein chuckled, bending his head to whisper his answer against her lips.
“Aye, lass, I’ll take your hand. And I’ll give ye my heart in return.”
A silver menagerie graced the shelf above Marcus’s worktable. A fawn with long, uncertain legs. A bear, clawing the air. An owl, solemn and silent. A squirrel … a hare … an eagle, all fashioned by Marcus’s hand from scraps of silver left over from more lucrative commissions.
He turned his newest creation this way and that, scrutinizing it for flaws. He saw none. The creature was so real he half-expected it to leap off his palm. It was quite possibly the finest figurine he’d ever created.
It was a she-wolf.
The animal regarded him with silent gray eyes. He’d sculpted them exactly as he remembered them—solemn and wide, with a magic that could look through a man’s soul. They were shadowed eyes. Eyes that had seen more than they could bear.
A sudden chill overtook him.
He glanced toward the furnace, where a half-finished plow blade awaited. The coals had cooled while he’d sat dawdling. Pushing to his feet, he placed the she-wolf on the shelf with the other forest creatures.
Perhaps now his memories of Gwendolyn would fade.
Over twenty years ago, while traveling in England on my honeymoon, I visited Glastonbury, once known as the mystical island of Avalon. In the years since the Druids, Avalon’s surrounding swamps have given way to flat, fertile farmland, but the sacred island still resonates with magic and legend.
The Chalice Well, also known as the Goddess Well, is one of these legends. Originally a sacred pagan spring, the waters of the Chalice Well are tinged a deep red. The scientific explanation for this phenomenon stresses the high iron content of the water. A more lyrical tale—and one which I much prefer—suggests the red waters flow from the Holy Grail, which lies buried beneath the well.
I hope you enjoyed my fantasy of how the Grail found a home under the hills of Avalon. For more Grail legends and Celtic trivia, as well as free short stories, giveaways and prizes, please visit my Web site at www.joynash.com.